February is incoming and with it another round of fashion weeks. New York’s from the 11th, London’s from the 18th — by the end of the month there will be a whole new crop of lime-green mesh dresses and paint-splattered pleather suits to work into our wardrobes.
Despite being broadly the right age and demographic (early thirties, work in media, live in Hackney — I’m sure you know the type), I find almost everything to do with fashion oppressive. The relentless churn, the elitism, the fact that so many of the most feted clothes are, objectively, quite gross — it’s a world that has always seemed painfully self-referential.
